


Inferno

by ClassiqueMystique



Series: Home On The Range [3]
Category: Frontier (TV 2016)
Genre: Cold Weather, Deepthroating, Implied Facial, M/M, Possessive Declan, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 07:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11099592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassiqueMystique/pseuds/ClassiqueMystique
Summary: The temperature is dropping rapidly and Dimanche can't find Michael anywhere.Declan's not worried in the slightest.





	Inferno

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PandaofManyFandoms (Pandabetalock)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandabetalock/gifts).



> Haha I said I'd write one Miclan fic that involved a tree, and here it is!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> XOXOXO
> 
> -CM
> 
> For PandaofManyFandoms: welcome aboard this ship, my friend!

 

_“Are you mine?”_

 

Declan shivered.

 

This time of year in the frozen woodlands the temperatures dropped from cold to downright glacial. And that was during the daytime when the sun was shining bright. Nighttime was a different story altogether. In the nights…well he’d known men who’d went to bed with ten toes, only to awake with six or seven left after the others dropped off. So, it was imperative to keep warm at all times. Of course thick furs helped tremendously with that—he never travelled without being bundled from head to toe.  But there were other ways to keep warm…

 

_“Yes yours. Forever.”_

 

Declan shivered again.

 

Michael’s thighs were one such way. Those fucking slender thighs that looked as cold as they were white, was anything but. The massive Cree thought back to last night when he’d cornered Michael with rough kisses and desperate hands. The Irishman had whined in protest when his pants were ripped away, exposing his soft flesh to the bitter cold winds. Declan drowned his lover’s complaints with an eager tongue, bullying his way past only a bit of lingering resistance between Michael’s thighs before he was home again.

 

_“Will you stay with me, Michael?”_

 

That fucking inferno.

 

Delicious, wet, tight heat. The look on Michael’s face when he’d registered just how much power he now had inside of him was priceless. Eyes widened, pupils blown, puffs of air blown out shallowly between ruby red, kiss bitten lips. He stared up at Declan with a look of wonderment, hands fisted in the furs stretched across that broad chest while the Cree carved out a space within him that was all his own. That look made Declan rumble with pride. That look was a sense of realization, of understanding. _Michael belonged with him._ There were **no** exceptions. Nothing to debate.

 

 _“I’ll never leave you. Not even in death.”_  

 

That’s what Michael had whispered against his lips last night, urging the Cree deeper inside of him with crushing warm thighs, encasing his waist and locked behind his back by crossed ankles. Sweet words accompanied by an even sweeter look.

 

The same look he was receiving right now.

 

But the noise of snow crunching under heavy boots broke his focus. He knew instantly from the sound and pattern that it was Dimanche and not Sokonan approaching. Dimanche walked with purpose; Sokonan with death. He almost never heard her when she walked. He pressed his forehead against the rough bark of the maple tree in front of him. His clan brother stopped a few feet away, seeing only parts of Declan from behind the tree and assuming that nature had called and he was relieving himself.

 

“I can’t find the Irish runt,” Dimanche ground out through clenched teeth.

 

Declan swiftly leaned forward, fighting the urge to groan. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”

 

Around here indeed. He looked down at the young man in question on his knees before him. Hands braced on Declan’s muscled thighs, red lips stretched wide across the width of his cock, tears like flecks of ice forming in the corners of his eyes.

 

Beautiful.

 

Declan peered around the tree to see Dimanche still standing there. “Anything else?”

 

Even in the distance he could see the native’s vein by his right eye pop and throb in frustration. “It will only get colder as the sky darkens. Should we not look for him?”

 

Declan shrugged, leaning forward just a bit more, sliding more of himself deeper into Michael’s throat.

 

“I’m sure he’ll return to us when he’s finished doing…whatever it is that he’s doing. I wouldn’t worry about it brother. Michael is a big boy, he can take care of himself. And besides if he was in trouble, I’m sure he could use his mouth to get out of it.”

 

He didn’t have to look down to know he was being glared at.

 

“Go to bed Dimanche.”

 

The native stomped off without another word, no doubt relieved. Declan waited until he was far enough into the distance before he looked down at his lover’s face. He didn’t realize how deep he had thrusted—Michael’s nose almost caressed the nest of his hair. And he could tell that breathing was starting to become a problem with the way the Irishman’s cheeks were flushed near crimson. With the way tears formed in the corners of his eyes and shined like tiny diamonds in the light of the moon. With the way his chest began to rise and fall in rapid motion, and those pale hands gripped Declan tighter and tighter. He knew that Michael could have pushed him away after Dimanche left and if he really wanted to—muster up enough strength if the need for air was dire enough. And yet he didn’t move a muscle. His devotion to the man standing above him was that intense.

 

But mercifully Declan pulled back, watching as his slick cock slipped past bruised lips. Lips that curled into a snarl.

 

“Were you trying to kill me? I couldn’t breathe!”

 

The Cree knew Michael’s anger was fleeting at best. He smirked. “Would you rather Dimanche have caught you in such a compromising position them? Should I call to him now?”

 

Michael whacked him on the thigh, grudgingly letting a smile slip past his frown. “You’re a shit Declan.”

 

Declan moved closer and guided his hardness back to Michael’s mouth, gliding the head across Michael’s lips. “And you are beautiful,” he whispered.

 

The Irishman smile bashfully, the still rosy hue of his cheeks illuminated in the pale moon light. Playfulness returning and with their eyes locked, Michael tantalizing kissed along the Cree’s length. “My face is cold. Warm me?” the Irishman asked sweetly. The change in subject was so abrupt, that a look of confusion danced across Declan’s face. But the naughty twinkle in Michael’s eye revealed his words’ true meaning, causing the fur trader to roar with excitement. His lover said his face was cold. That meant that he wanted Declan to warm it form him. And Declan was anything if not a good provider.

 

Holding Michael steady with threaded fingers through the wavy back hair on the back of his head, Declan took himself in hand and began to pump.

 

“I’ll never leave you. Not even in death,” Michael moaned, repeating his pledge as the man he loved painted his face with searing heat.

 

_Fin_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Next Miclan ficlet will be take place at Grace Emberly's tavern and will include the following kinks: slight feminization, fever, protective Declan, implied/semi-public sex. 
> 
> Til then,
> 
> CM


End file.
